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This morning we decided to take a trip to Charlotte to visit with my sister and nephew. I may not get a lot of WP time, so here’s a video to enjoy in the mean time. Although it’s Jenna Marbles and not me, it was basically the same situation when I was packing.

Left and right the culinary world is exercising their right to take positions on more than margarine vs, butter. Recently Chic-fil-A added homophobia to their recipe. Now restaurants across America have added abuse to their mix. Ms. Magazine blog reported an uprising of ignorant business owners capitalizing off of their trivialization of domestic abuse. Right: a chalkboard window display proves food & beverage establishments should stick to their day jobs and leave the comedy to those without such a sick sense of humor.

Moral of the story: There is no such thing as a funny joke about domestic abuse, so don’t bother. 25% of women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime. That’s nothing to laugh at, or capitalize from.

Help? Whether you need help, or you want to give help you can find shelters here. You can use your dollar to put an end to domestic abuse here, and you can learn more about how and what you can do to help here.

To read the original article at Ms. Magazine Blog, click here.
xoxo,
-E

I promised I would explain why the posts have been a little lighter lately. Well you see, last week a major shoe malfunction on my way to work forced me to the conclusion that my commute was extremely too long and therefore inconvenient. I turned right back around, got back on the train and went home. I curled my hair, put on my go-get’em outfit topped off with my black pumps and went to town, literally. I picked up a few job applications, scheduled a few interviews, went to F21 for a new go get’em outfit (that always lifts my spirits) and then headed home.

By the time I got home my feet were killing me. Did I mention it was like a thousand degrees outside? I had a reese sized blister on each foot. I had sweat an amount equal to that of a lengthy sauna visit and I had sat next to a woman going through a stolen purse. (If you’re reading this lady; who works at apple, whose purse was stolen: you’re welcome)

Well anyways, the next day, I set out in my new go get’em outfit and heels, only to find myself lost with bigger blisters, resumes and applications damp from the humidity and rain, make up smudged and morale very low. When all seemed on he brink of a major crumble, I got a call from my mother telling my sister was in labors. At this point, lost in the city maze, blocks and hours past my interviews, I threw my hands in the air.

If you hadn’t connected the dots already, I’m home. Quit my job, no longer a city girl (for now). It’s a sad fact. I would be ashamed of having ever gone, but damn, how many nineteen year olds do I know that would go 9 hours from everyone they know to live alone for the summer? None (incase you’re wondering).

It looks like my summer won’t so much be discovering myself in the city (although I mostly enjoyed doing so), it will actually be getting to know my new nephew, tackling DIY projects hands on, and hopefully working on my tan. Strange, this might be my first summer since I was fifteen not working.